He flinched playfully. “You are being most severe on my gender, Mrs. Boyd.”
She laughed. “Not at all, sir.” Her smile turned inward. “I was simply very much in love with my husband.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, but if Rachel wasn’t mistaken, a subtle glimmer of admiration shone in his eyes. He stood and she followed suit, wincing at the pain in her leg.
She’d checked with Lyda at the store earlier that morning for willow bark, hoping to find the pain-relieving herb in stock. But Lyda informed her that Rand had purchased all they had. What were the chances she could stop by his clinic for the medicine without him being there? He’d done nothing wrong. Quite the contrary, in fact. While she wasn’t ready to relinquish all of her misgivings about the man, he was certainly giving her reason to. She would pay him for the willow bark, of course—she just preferred not to see him so soon, knowing he would inquire about her leg.
But there was one thing she would change about the current situation—Rand Brookston was all Mitch talked about. How Rand “rescued” the calf. She sincerely appreciated what he’d done, but she would just as soon undo the impression he—or rather, his profession—had made on her older son.
Mr. Fossey rounded the corner of the desk and glanced down at her cane. Concern crept into his features. “Are you certain your injury isn’t more serious, my dear? You look as though you’re in a great deal of pain.”
Rachel squared her shoulders and stood a little straighter. “I’m fine. I need to work out the soreness—that’s all.”
He stared as though debating her self-diagnosis, then made his way to the door. “Well . . . as soon as I receive word from the board, I’ll let you know.” He reached for the knob.
“Mr. Fossey . . .”
He paused.
“I want to thank you again for agreeing to support me in this. I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, or the board.” Her hand tightened on the curved head of the cane. “You were always fair and generous in your dealings with Thomas, and I realize—” Her throat tightened as she swallowed. She’d promised herself to keep her emotions in check. She was certain the other ranchers in Timber Ridge—all men—never got “choked up” during business meetings with Mr. Fossey. A deep breath helped to dislodge the pebble in her throat. “What I’m trying to say is . . . I realize most men in your position wouldn’t have chosen to conduct business with a widow, as you did. I’m grateful for the confidence you’ve shown in me and for the friendsh—” The words caught. She cleared her throat. “For the friendship our families share.”
“Mrs. Boyd . . .” When she didn’t look up, Mr. Fossey bent slightly to secure her gaze. “Rachel,” he tried again softly. “I assure you, my decision to work with you following Thomas’s passing had nothing to do with our families’ friendship.”
Rachel eyed him, having long suspected otherwise.
“All right . . .” He gave a slight shrug. “Perhaps our friendship did influence my initial decision, but it enabled me to see what a competent and intelligent woman you are. And remember, the board had final say in the matter.” He smiled. “You’ve experienced some recent setbacks—that’s all—as has every rancher in the area. The winter’s been hard on all of you.”
Rachel scoffed softly. “Everyone except Leonard Rudger. According to what I heard this morning, he made an offer on the Toberlins’ ranch.” Whose property backed up to hers, though she didn’t voice that reminder. “Rumor has it the Toberlins are going to sell and move back to Missouri.”
Mr. Fossey’s expression revealed nothing. And far too late, Rachel’s discretion delivered warning. She blinked. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me. That was imprudent and uncalled for.”
A wave of his hand accompanied an understanding look. “No harm done.” His hand briefly covered hers on the cane. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’ve endured, losing Thomas the way you did. Add to that the hardship of raising two young boys and managing a ranch alone. I admire your strength and courage, Rachel. Sarah and I both do.”
His brow furrowed. “Speaking of Sarah, she and I missed you and the boys at church yesterday. She’d like you, Mitchell, and Kurt to come over for Sunday lunch soon. She’d love the visit. I would too.”
Rachel adored Gilbert and Sarah Fossey, but she still dreaded social gatherings, even small ones. And this one would be especially awkward if she was still waiting on the board’s decision. But more than that, such occasions were a cruel reminder that she was no longer part of a couple, and that Thomas was never coming back. But as her brother had told her countless times, she wouldn’t begin to feel “normal” again—whatever that was—until there was normality to her life.
Her practiced “widow’s smile” came easily. “I’d love nothing more, Mr. Fossey. Thank you. I’ll speak with Sarah about what I can bring.”
Giving her elbow a fatherly squeeze, Mr. Fossey opened the door.
Rachel glanced over to say good-bye to his secretary, but the woman wasn’t there. Perhaps Miss Graham hadn’t overheard their conversation after all. Rachel started for the lobby, mindful of the thick Persian rug, her gait anything but graceful. She was barely aware of the gentleman sitting off to the side, but when he glanced up, it drew her attention.
It took her a moment to place him, but when she did, she stopped mid-limp.
“Edward!” Mr. Fossey said behind her. “I heard you’d arrived in town. It’s about time you got over here to see me.”
The gentleman stood and accepted Mr. Fossey’s outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you again, Gilbert. It’s been a few years.”
“More than I care to count, I’m afraid.”
Rachel didn’t wish to intrude on the informal reunion, but neither did she want to miss the opportunity to thank the man for the kindness he’d demonstrated at the Mullinses’ store days earlier.
Mr. Fossey’s grin made him look years younger. “Wherever you’re staying, Edward, Sarah’s already upset that it’s not with us.” The men laughed, and then Mr. Fossey’s smile faded. “I’m so sorry about Evelyn. I wish Sarah and I could have seen her again, one last time.”
The gentleman briefly bowed his head. “I appreciate that, Gilbert,” he whispered. “She would have loved to see you both again too.” He glanced in Rachel’s direction, and Mr. Fossey trailed his gaze.
“Mrs. Boyd! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still here. Please allow me to make the introductions.” The men lessened the distance. “Edward, may I present Mrs. Rachel Boyd, formerly of Franklin, Tennessee. Mrs. Boyd owns a ranch just outside of town and has two of the cutest redheaded boys you’ll ever see. Mrs. Boyd’s older brother is currently sheriff of Timber Ridge, has been since the town started up.”
Mr. Fossey leaned closer to Rachel and winked. “James has my vote in the upcoming election, by the way. And I predict he’ll win it in a landslide. Don’t you worry about what the mayor’s trying to do with delaying the election. It won’t amount to anything.”
Hoping he was right, Rachel smiled.
Mr. Fossey straightened and gestured to the gentleman beside him. “Mrs. Boyd, may I present a somewhat ornery but most esteemed former colleague and friend of mine, for over thirty years now, Mr. Edward Westin of New York City.”
Mr. Westin bowed slightly at the waist, his smile as kind-looking as she remembered. “A pleasure, Mrs. Boyd.” His well-trimmed beard, dark but peppered with white, complemented his tailored gray suit. He angled a sideways nod. “I hope you don’t believe everything this old geezer says.”
Rachel laughed, catching the faintest Northern accent and managing an awkward curtsey. “The pleasure’s mine, Mr. Westin. And not to worry, I know when to adhere to Mr. Fossey’s counsel and when to dismiss it.” She gave Mr. Fossey a knowing look. “I’m glad our paths have crossed for a second time, Mr. Westin, because I wanted to thank you for calming tempers at the Mullinses’ store the other day. That was very kind of you.”
“You’re most welcome, m
a’am. I didn’t know what was happening at the time. I just sensed something was wrong. I hope Mr. Mullins is faring better after the—” He stopped short. His expression turned sheepish. “After the incident with his heart,” he said more softly. “News travels fast in Timber Ridge, or so I’ve learned in recent days.”
Rachel nodded. “That it does.” While word had spread about Ben’s heart failure, she was certain the details of his prognosis remained private. “Thank you for your concern. When I visited with the Mullinses yesterday, Mr. Mullins was feeling some better.”
She’d taken Ben and Lyda dinner yesterday, and Lyda had seemed in surprisingly good spirits, saying she thought Ben would be up and about in a couple of weeks. Rachel hadn’t contradicted her, but she was certain Lyda was being overly optimistic. Either that, or Lyda wasn’t aware of the seriousness of Ben’s condition. Maybe Dr. Brookston hadn’t informed them yet. But that seemed unlikely.
The mantel clock in Mr. Fossey’s office chimed three times, and Rachel knew Mitchell and Kurt would be waiting for her at the schoolhouse—along with the young Miss Stafford. Another meeting she’d dreaded all weekend. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I need to be on my way. Thank you again, Mr. Fossey. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Westin.”
Edward Westin tilted his head in acknowledgment. “For the second time, Mrs. Boyd.”
Rachel arrived at the schoolhouse to find the grounds unusually quiet—and the schoolroom empty. No Mitchell. No Kurt. No Miss Stafford. She pulled Thomas’s pocket watch from her reticule. It didn’t make sense. Class was supposed to have dismissed only moments ago.
Sighing, she picked a careful path down the icy stairs to the wagon, mindful of her cane slipping on the snow. Perhaps the boys had gone to the jail to wait for her, either there or the store. Taking a deep breath, she gritted her teeth and climbed back into the wagon and up to the buckboard—when her right leg gave way beneath her.
The steady throb in her thigh turned white-hot, and she doubled over, her eyes clenched tight. Her body flushed hot, then cold. A light sweat broke out on her forehead.
Clutching her leg with one hand and the bench seat with the other, Rachel tried to breathe and prayed for the pain to pass.
10
Have you experienced any more pain? Any tightness in your chest?” Rand eased down on the side of Ben’s bed, stethoscope in hand.
Ben shook his head. “Nothing to complain about. Main thing is I just can’t seem to catch my breath. Walking from here to there . . .” He pointed to the chamber pot in the corner and gave a frustrated sigh. “You’d think I’d walked a mile.”
Nodding, Rand listened to his lungs, mindful of how closely the older man was watching him. “What about urination? You all right in that department?”
“No problem there, Doc.” Ben chuckled. “But then, you said I had too much fluid in me.”
Rand didn’t even attempt to return the humor, and Ben’s smile slowly faded. Rand glanced over his shoulder, making certain they were still alone. He kept his voice low. “Have you spoken with her yet?”
For the longest moment, Ben didn’t answer. His gaze rested on the bedcovers. Finally, he shook his head. “I’m gettin’ worse . . . aren’t I?”
Rand fingered the stethoscope in his hand. “Yes . . . I’m sorry. The fluid continues to accumulate around your lungs.” He sighed. “We don’t know why, but it sometimes happens with people who have heart problems.”
Ben took a labored breath, not all that deep, and gave it slow release. “All right, then . . .” Resolve deepened the lines of his face. He pushed himself up in the bed. “Let’s do that surgery, Doc. Whatever it is you’re wanting to do, as soon as you want to do it. But after that . . .” Finality settled heavy over his body, his shoulders bearing the brunt. “After that, I’m done. It’s not that I don’t trust you or that I don’t respect all the things you learned from that fancy doctors’ school back east. But I’m of the mind that a man does what he’s able to, and then if God wants to step in and change things, He can. And if He chooses not to, well . . .” His eyes met Rand’s. “Then I guess I’ll be all right with that too.”
Ben’s tone was unmistakable. He preferred for God to step in, just as Rand did. What Rand needed Ben to know was that, as his physician, he planned on doing some stepping in himself. “I’ll need an assistant for the surgery. If you’re agreeable, I’ll speak with Mrs. Boyd today about helping me.”
“She’s as good a nurse as they come.”
“Better than most, actually,” he said, rising and reaching for his bag. He was already anticipating what Rachel’s response would be when she learned about the procedure. If she hadn’t heard of external heart compression yet, he doubted she’d heard of the surgery he planned. Nor did he think she’d agree to help him without strong reservations.
Yet this surgery was his only chance of buying Ben a little more time.
He’d looked for her at church yesterday, but she wasn’t there. Neither were the boys. He kept picturing her limping around the stall as she had on Friday morning. Remembering how she refused to let him examine her, he silently added headstrong to the woman’s lengthening list of attributes.
“Before you go, Doc . . .” Wariness flitted across Ben’s features. “Exactly how do you plan on gettin’ this fluid out of me?”
Rand summoned his most confident and comforting expression. “I’ll administer a topical anesthetic, so don’t worry—you won’t feel a thing.”
Ben nailed him with a you-know-better-than-to-try-that-with-me look. “About the only time I ever worry is when a man doesn’t give me a straight answer to a straight question.”
“I’m sorry. You’re right.” Rand sat on the edge of the bed again. “For this particular procedure, the patient sits upright and leans on a table with their back exposed.”
“You mean I’ll be awake? I heard doctors give people bein’ operated on something to make them go to sleep.”
Rand smiled. “Yes, for some procedures, but not this one. The patient needs to be awake because it’s imperative that they hold their breath for short periods of time so the lung isn’t pierced. I’ll clean the area on your back before inserting the needle.”
“Needle?” Ben winced.
“You won’t feel a thing, I promise. There will be very little discomfort. After inserting the needle, I’ll draw out the—”
“Hang on there, Doc.” Ben squeezed his eyes tight. His face lost some of its color. “You can stop right there. If you don’t, I might just change my mind.”
Rand smiled, and in a gesture that might have felt awkward before the past few days, he reached for Ben’s hand. He gently gripped it as if the two of them were shaking on a deal. “I give you my word, Ben, I wouldn’t perform this procedure if I didn’t believe it will be successful . . . and that it will buy you more time. It’ll give you some relief too, help you breathe easier.” He held Ben’s attention, wanting to reassure him, while also hoping his friend wouldn’t ask him how many times he’d performed the surgery. “One more thing . . .”
Ben briefly squeezed his hand before letting go. “I know,” he said softly. “I’ll tell her.”
Hearing his sincerity, Rand didn’t press the issue.
“Can you do me a favor, Doc?” Ben pulled out an envelope tucked inside a book by his pillow. “Would you ask Charlie Daggett to run this out to a guest at the resort? It needs to get there this afternoon, if possible.”
“I’ll ask him on my way out.” Rand tucked the envelope in his coat pocket, then checked the pouch of digitalis he’d given to Ben after his first episode. He frowned. Ben had been using it faster than he’d expected.
A ruckus outside the door portended rapid knocking, and before either he or Ben could respond, the door burst open.
Mitchell and Kurt Boyd raced into the room, breathless.
“I’m gettin’ to Uncle Ben first!” Kurt yelled.
“But I get to check his heart. ’Cause I know how to do it and you don’t
!”
Rand jumped up and intercepted the boys at the foot of the bed. “Whoa there, fellas!” Arms outstretched, he secured them—one in each arm—surprised at how much stronger Kurt seemed than his older brother. “Didn’t Aunt Lyda warn you to be quiet around Uncle Ben?”
Mitch nodded. “I’m sorry, Dr. Brookston.”
Kurt blinked, cookie crumbs clinging to the edges of his mouth.
“Didn’t she?” Rand repeated, directing the question solely at Kurt.
Kurt’s glare held challenge—and deliberate calculation. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.
His stare steady, Rand waited.
“I’m sorry,” the boy murmured, looking away.
Rand released them and gave Kurt’s shoulder a quick pat. “You can visit for a few minutes, but do it quietly. And no bouncing on the bed.”
He watched the boys approach the bed with fresh caution. Rachel Boyd sure had her hands full. How the woman could run a ranch and raise two sons . . . It tired him out just thinking about it. And yet . . .
He grabbed his bag and his coat, knowing better than to give in to the regret rising inside him. He’d chosen his path in life. His professors in medical school had been married, but it was different back east—civilized, more orderly, doctors had set schedules. He spent most of his days running from home to home, back and forth across Timber Ridge, up and down winding mountain trails caring for the ailing, at the townspeople’s beck and call all hours of the day and night. Why he’d ever tried to gain Rachel Boyd’s attention, he didn’t know. Life was full of choices, and he’d made his long ago.
Still—his grip tightened on the leather handle—moments came when a man was forced to look at his life . . . and wonder.
He checked his pocket watch, needing to be on his way. He had an appointment with a patient this afternoon, and it was an appointment he was eager to keep.
Within My Heart Page 11
